This is a disturbing story based on mlmm photo challenge 147 and words from Sunday Whirl 281 and mlmm’s Wordle 137. It is sexual and perverted at it’s core and is a very dark, off-kilter tale. I’m writing from my dark side, so read at your own risk. These stories come unbidden from places I don’t like to visit much. Just another phase in the bipolarsphere I hope.
Sunday whirl words in italics; mlmm words in bold.
Her prarapraxis, her feeble attempts at platitudes, enrages him. He climbs on the bed, positioning his lean body against her back, and shoves her forearms, palms up in supplitude, hard onto the rails of the bed.
He smells of nicotine and lust making her feel queasy. She offers meager resistance as he drives his thumbs deep into her flesh. “The truth,” he spits into her neck, “your preening siren call goes beyond this room. You cheat on me. Men leap upon you, ravishing you all day when I am not here. You spread your legs wide for them.”
He grabs her head and making her nod yes. To learn the name of her scapegraces, he withholds the drug infusions til her veins crawl with mealy bugs. The drugs of oblivion. The drugs of heightened desire.
Sobbing, she turns in a friend, an acquaintance, the letter carrier, the store manager, the desk clerk, the office mate from her life before him and this room.
“Do not try to flee,” he would whisper, one more nuzzle of her neck, one more hand down the ripped front of her dress. “There is not a single person, not one, I’ve seen to that, to stop me from hurting you bad, I mean bad. Remember when you tried before.” She remembered what he had unleashed upon her body, what he had enacted upon her soul.
Triumphant, he will seal her in the room again. First promising sweet things when he returned – the drugs, days of pleasure not pain, a new dress to replace the one covered in his gelatinous seed, flowers, chocolates “The little things lovers do for their special one,” he cooed, stroking her hair.
She falls back on the bed, sheets smelling of his sex, her body screaming for his drugs. Drugs, no matter how she fought, that made her body scream for him.
He turns at the door, “You reap what you sow, he says, “and you were sown a bad seed. I keep you safe from the world, and the world, whore, safe from you.”
Each time, any spark of hope, of escape fades. Has a quarter of her life already gone by? She could only writhe in withdrawal and wonder.